


no pain no gain

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Addiction, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Pain, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Written late at night, damage, mind the tags ok, not nice, post sazuka 2019 but that's not super essential, probably shit, some fluff i guess?, violence against self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21039599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: No one is harder on Charles than he is on himself.





	no pain no gain

**Author's Note:**

> MIND THE TAGS you fuckers. It ain't pretty. 
> 
> Also totally unedited and probably shit.
> 
> If I wasn't going to hell before I am now and I'm dragging you with me so everybody just calm down and enjoy(?) the ride.

Dead eyes in the mirror, dead soul underneath, numb hands running fingers over unfeeling arms and shaking through messy, sweaty hair.

That's what he sees when he comes back to the hotel and is finally alone, away from the fans he's disappointed and the reporters who want to deepen the feeling of bleeding agony that he's clearly become engulfed in already.

Away from the screaming and yelling at the garage, where he wanted to clap his hands over his ears and scream and where he dug his nails into his palms to keep from doing it.

Away from Sebastian who was so perfectly _pleasant and nice_ and so honestly _kind_, things Charles doesn't associate with failure and things which only increase the dissonance in his head. 

Away from the eyes of the world that he felt was scrutinizing him so closely that he swore they might see how he's dead weight walking, how he's a hollow shell of what he wants to be, a sorry excuse for who he wants to be. 

_If Jules was watching, surely he was disappointed in me. _

It's all he can think about. The languid features in the mirror look like they've been painted over bones instead of being comfortably filled out and healthy. He's healthy, of course he is, he would never endanger his chances by being careless with his overall health, but here, in the stark hotel bathroom lighting, he doesn't look well at all.

He pulls a smile, poses for the mirror like it might be a reporter's camera, but the smile just looks sick to him, as sick as the way he feels inside. 

He brushes his teeth again, clearing out the taste of vomit again, hoping it would be the last time he would need to pull his toothbrush out of his suitcase. He's packed it twice already, but then he found himself throwing up over the toilet again, heaving up nothing but bile because he hasn't been able to eat anything since the race. He doesn't want to be sick, he wants to get on the plane right this instant and get the fuck out of this godforsaken city, but the plane doesn't leave for another hour and all he can do is stay here in the hotel room where no one can find him.

Charles wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to punch things, he wants to sleep. He tells himself he doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what he needs. He tells himself he's too overwhelmed to decide what he wants right now, but it's a lie, and it's not even a good one. One part of him wants all of those things, it's true. But the other parts don't agree.

He wants it, just like he always wants it on days like this, needs it like heroin or...

_It's just like painkillers, just like taking aspirin, just like running a long, long way. _He's breathing quickly, heartbeat racing, hands shaking, fighting weakly against what he knows he'll inevitably do anyway.

_Call a friend, draw on your skin, take some xanax and sleep. Remember, you don't need to do this. _

_Stupid fucking therapist._ _What does she know about driving a car worth millions of dollars in front of millions of worldwide viewers?_

_What does she know about what it's like to be so fucking stupid that you hit someone on the first lap and go on driving? _ _What does she know about being a fucking stupid piece of shit who can't get it right? _ _What the fuck makes her think she can suggest those stupid fucking alternatives to the one thing that will make this right?_

_Fuckall, that's what she knows._

He's furious that he's even considering listening to some academic talk guru. What he should do, what he will do, is what he's always done. Tried and true methods for curing what ails you.

He throws the toothbrush into the front pocket of his suitcase once more and looks at the clock. _Yeah, that's enough time for now._

He rummages about in the side compartment of his carry-on bag and pulls out the object he knew he'd have to throw out before he got on the plane anyway. It's so tiny, fits in his hand perfectly.

_Hello old friend._

It's not an old friend, but it may as well be. It looks the same as all the other ones that preceded it, all small, all metal, all cheap and uncomplicated, so easy to hide. He slides it open, the blade shows easily, clean and fresh and sharp. 

He looks at it under the bathroom lights and it's so beautiful. He knows that's a strange thought, he knows it's not one he should have, but somewhere along the line he's formed a bond with things that hurt him. He's repulsed but not enough to overpower the sense of longing and craving that's always brought him running back to the same old habit.

He looks at himself in the mirror and holds the blade up, running the wicked sharpness ever so slightly around the sides of his face, imagining how he would look in the mirror if he were bleeding from cuts on his temples and cheeks. He closes his eyes.

_Don't be a fucking idiot, Charles. _

He's not an idiot, he doesn't make a single mark on his reflection. He runs the blade along his throat, gently back and forth over his jugular vein, but he's just imagining and he doesn't want to die, he can't die after the weekend he's had, it would be so shameful.

He lays the blade on the edge of the sink and strips, paying no attention to his chest or arms or ribs, they're perfect, they have to stay perfect, he wants them to be perfect.

_Too many eyes will see, Andrea will see, Seb might see. _

He shudders to think of what they would say. 

He sits down on the edge of the bathtub and takes the knife, running it up and down his calves, again, not even nicking, being careful, wishing he didn't have to be. He'd rather do it there, that's where it feels most satisfying, but these days, he knows his options.

Finally, he brings the knife to his upper thigh, running it along the right side of his right thigh, breathing in and out with a rush of nervous excitement, he's keyed up now. Slowly, he presses a little harder, scratching the surface of the skin, testing himself like he always does, his mind is fighting it, trying to reassert some kind of survival instinct, but these days it's just a distant tingle in the back of his brain that's easily ignored.

And he jerks suddenly, as if somehow he could catch himself off guard, and a deep gash opens, blood rushing to the point of contact, red like team he so utterly failed today.

He opens another gash next to that one and the trail of red joins the first stream, running down his leg, down the bathtub, over his foot, over to the drain, splatters on the wall, splatters on his arms.

Charles doesn't feel anything for a moment, and that prompts him to jab at the top of his thigh as well, puncturing the skin just a bit, just enough to release more red. His hand is bloody too now.

He exhales and then the pain comes, stinging as if someone had poured alcohol over the wounds already. Tears come, he breathes, heart rate still races, he doesn't move, he lets the blood spider out over the white fixtures and over his skin, and he watches as here and there it gets diluted with water droplets.

He closes his eyes and when he opens them, he releases the final few tears. _Enough now, enough with that._

He feels relieved, he feels like he can breath better. 

Inexplicably, he also wants more. But he knows he's pushing it already, he needs to clean up and come downstairs so the flight can go on time. 

When he comes down, he wonders if everyone can see how small he feels, but no one acts any different towards him.

They've been flying for hours when he knows it's not enough.

At first everything was okay, everything was great, he was riding the high, bandages wrapping his thigh where no one can see and smile wrapping his face. He found Daniel and sat with him and that makes him feel safe because he doesn't think he can talk much right now. Daniel does the talking for him though, and he likes the way Daniel talks. It's soothing and also funny and distracting and they are having a good time. Dan falls asleep and he videos himself poking his nose and shares it. Daniel doesn't wake up, though, and therein lies the problem. 

Charles is dropping, he can feel it. In his head, he imagines it must be how others feel when their blood sugar drops suddenly. 

He feels weak and sick again, his lungs are moving too quickly once more, and he can't hold off the thoughts that race faster than he did this weekend and it's making him frustrated. His palms are sweaty.

Suddenly he's aware of how trapped he is, how visible he is, and he wants to run away, but there's nowhere to go except the loo. He fights the panic, but it's winning and he knows it. Soon, he's hyperventilating quietly, afraid Daniel will open his eyes and see him like this.

He flees to the tiny cubicle of a bathroom, locking the door immediately.

_I need...I need..._

He needs, but he can't. There are no options here, no blades, no lighters, nothing to cure his fucked up ailment. His fingers are twitching as he runs them through his sweaty hair.

_You look like a fucking addict._

It's the only thing he can think when he meets his own flushed face and glazed eyes in the thin mirror. 

_Fuck, is there nothing here?_

He scrounges in his pockets, scans the blank walls, the scuffed floor. Nothing. He wets his face, letting the cold water run down all the way under his shirt collar. He leans against the wall and breathes, over and over, trying to calm himself. 

Eyes closed, hands together, jaw clinched.

He breathes like that for what seems like hours. The plan lurches through turbulence but he doesn't open his eyes.

Finally, he's calm again. He thinks of Daniel, back in the seat, and wonders if he's awake. He smiles to himself at the way Daniel looked asleep, so completely dead to the world. He realizes suddenly that he's so fucking tired. The cuts to his legs ache as he pushes off from the wall and opens the door, only to see Daniel standing directly outside.

"Thirty minutes mate!" He's crowing. Charles is confused.

"What were you doing in there?? Thirty fucking minutes mate!"

Charles is wildly caught off guard for a moment and then he sees that Daniel is filming and he can't help the laughter that comes as he makes a wild grab for Dan's phone. Daniel holds it away from him and Charles grabs him by the ribs and maneuvers him back to their seats, pushing him down into his seat again. Daniel is still laughing, eyes dancing, and Charles feels lighter. 

Daniel falls asleep again eventually, but Charles can't. He's still too keyed up but not enough. 

When they land, Charles is so tired he can hardly stay on his feet and Daniel holds him up as they disembark, and somewhere in his foggy state Charles registers that Dan is asking him if he wants to crash at his place and Charles can only nod because he's really not sure what words are anymore.

He wakes up a bit as the cab jostles them along, opening his eyes to see the lights of Monaco going by and Daniel's face reflected next to him in the window of the car. Daniel has his arm around Charles' shoulders and Charles realizes that his head is resting on Daniel's shoulder, and he's both too afraid to move and too comfortable. 

When they arrive, Daniel wakes him again, gently shaking him and whispering "we're here" in his ear. Charles stirs, sits up, and somehow pulls himself out and onto his feet to stumble along behind Daniel into the house. 

It's not his first time here of course. He finds his way to the bathroom and pulls out loungewear from his carry-on, stripping off his plane outfit and tossing it onto the floor beside the bag. He dresses quickly and comes out, half expecting Daniel to be there again, but he isn't. Daniel is in his bedroom, already laying on the bed. Charles walks by the doorway, eyes already sinking with sleep again. 

"Goodnight," he says.

"Night, mate," Daniel says, exiting the room and heading to take his turn in the bathroom.

Charles falls flat on the guest bed and he's asleep before he can turn out the light.

There's a rustling noise.

Charles is half-sleeping, feeling still that not enough time had passed, that he was awakening too soon. But he opens his eyes. It's not daylight, but Daniel is standing in the doorway looking at him. 

Wiping away his sleep, Charles sits up. "It's a bit creepy that you're watching me sleep now," he cracks.

Daniel doesn't answer and Charles' eyes travel downward to something he's holding in his hands. It's his clothing, the ones he wore on the flight.

And they're bloody. 

Frantically Charles searches for something he could say, something to explain it away, something, anything, but he's just woken up and he can't find anything in his brain that works.

Daniel sees that he's struggling, and he doesn't ask. He tosses the clothing onto the floor and comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, just looking at Charles.

Charles' heart is threatening to betray him even though he hasn't said a word and he's avoiding Daniel's gaze. _Surely Dan can hear it._

His breathing suddenly accelerates too quickly, and he knows Daniel catches that. 

"Charles."

Charles doesn't look at him, doesn't react, pretends he doesn't hear.

But Daniel puts a hand on the side of his face and turns him to face him. "Charles, please."

Charles looks at him then, trying to calm the storm inside, but as Daniel's eyes meet his, he finds that the storm inside is already subsiding.

"Charles, what happened?"

Charles still feels his heart racing. "You know, just a bad weekend all around. Max and I crashed, you saw it."

"You didn't tell me you got hurt in the crash."

Charles shrugs, but Daniel's still holding his face to look at him and Charles can see he doesn't believe him. 

There are tears in Daniel's eyes. Charles hates that.

"Please Charles, you know...you know how I feel about you. Please don't lie to me like you do to everyone else."

To his own shock, Charles chokes and the tears he silenced so easily before the flight flood his eyes and give him no chance to hold them back. After spilling down his face, the tears are suddenly running over onto Daniel's hand and Charles fights to turn away, the horrible guilty feeling eating at him again.

_How dare you involve Daniel in this shit._ He's mentally yelling at his brain, but it does no good.

Daniel engulfs him in his arms then, wrapping him up so that Charles' head is on his shoulder. Charles is able to stifle the tears then, forcing them away and gasping out, "I'm okay, I'm okay."

But all that changes when Daniel pulls back to look at him. There are still tears winding down his face and Daniel leans forward suddenly and kisses him on the forehead.

And Charles doesn't know how, he doesn't know why, but it's the last straw. Sobs come out from a place that feels so deep inside of his chest that he wonders if they've been hiding there for a long time.

He's so tired, and he's so ashamed and disappointed with himself, and vaguely he thinks that maybe Japan is just always going to be cursed for him.

Daniel is there again, clutching onto him, holding him tightly, and Charles registers that even as he spirals further into sobs, choking for breath in between. He pushes back against Daniel, not sure what he should do, wanting him there and ashamed that he is.

But Daniel doesn't release him. Instead, he leans Charles back onto the pillow and curls himself around him protectively, and again, he kisses Charles' forehead, his temples, his hair. 

Charles doesn't struggle anymore. He's so tired.

In the morning, when Charles wakes, he subconsciously expects that Daniel will be gone. 

He's not. He's still curled around Charles, and when Charles opens his eyes, Daniel's are already open. He smiles at Charles, not huge and goofy like usual, but softly.

Charles feels ashamed, embarrassed, awkward, and then he can't bring himself to feel that anymore as Daniel brushes his hair back and whispers, "hey."

No words come to Charles, so he just leans closer, forehead pressing against Daniel's, and he closes his eyes.

It's then that Daniel's lips find his, and Charles thinks that it's okay, everything is okay, except it's not, it's not, and yet he doesn't care. 

Daniel's eyes meet his and Charles hears himself whisper, "hey. I'm sorry about the clothing."

Daniel pulls him closer and says nothing.

"I'm a fucking wreck," Charles whispers after a moment, lips against Daniel's neck."I don't know why I do it, I don't know anything, I'm just so fucked up, Dan."

And Daniel doesn't ask him why, he doesn't hand out fake pity, he knows Charles, he knows it's not any good. Soon he'll find words, and when he does, Daniel knows that he will find a way to fix this, he swears that for Charles, he will move the world.

But now, in this moment, there are no words yet, so he just holds him and hopes it's enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, it's inexcusable, but here we are. I'm a horrible person and so are you so accept that we just can't be redeemed at this point and surrender to the dark side.  
References were made to instagram stories but ya'll should know that means nothing, it's just an imaginary extension.
> 
> Please remember this is only fictional, no real reference is intended, and please do not post this anywhere else.
> 
> Also I wrote this way too late and it's super rambly so I'm so sorry and yeah just I'm sorry.


End file.
